Oh, isn't it nice to be somebody's?—
Somebody's darling and pet,
To be shrined in the heart of a dear one,
Whose absence fills soul with regret?
To be dreamed of, and longed for, and courted,
As the Queen whom his heart holds in thrall,—
As the one—the great one, priceless jewel,
That outweighs and outvalues them all?
Oh,—I'd rather my head should be resting,
On the breast of the man that I love;
And my hand in his strong grasp be nestling,
And bask in the light of his love:—
I would rather,—far rather, my darling
Should be loving, and faithful, and brave,
Than be titled, and wealthy, and fickle;—
E'en though poverty held him a slave.
Oh, my heart yearns for one that is noble,—
In mind, not in riches or birth,
Who would love me, and value my love too,
Then my lot would be heaven on earth.
But where, alas, where shall I find him?
This man, that my heart longs for so?
This idol I picture and dream of,—
Does he live? I'm inclined to say, no.
He is merely a fanciful hero,
That my heart has pictured so fair:
I must stoop from my realm of wild fancy,
And take what may fall to my share.
Some plain, honest, working mechanic,
May be the prize I may call mine,
But if shaped like a man he'll be better,
Nor be left lonely, without Valentine.